


The Brainwashing Affair

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Brainwashing, Challenge Response, Gen, THRUSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-07-17 14:44:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16097792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: LJ Short Affair challenge. Prompts: dodge, blackNapoleon and Illya attend a Thrush recruitment conference





	The Brainwashing Affair

Napoleon took a seat next to a very attractive young woman and engaged her in conversation. Illya gave him a look as he sat down between him and an earnest young woman carrying a huge folder full of leaflets. He folded his arms and stared at the stage.

The young woman turned to him, however, and said, “Is this your first time at a G.R.I.V.E. conference, by any chance?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I thought so – I haven’t seen you before. Would you like to read some of the pamphlets I brought along? They’re very illuminating.” She handed him some leaflets which he took with interest.

“Illuminating indeed,” he commented. “So this is what GRIVE stands for: Guardianship, Reliability, Inspiration, Victory, and Enthusiasm.”

“Didn’t you know?”

“I thought it meant something quite different. It sounds very inspiring.”

“ It says, ‘Join us and learn to be free under the five absolutes of our mission. Throw off the shackles of ordinary, dull existence and fight for our ideals’.” She quoted enthusiastically. “Is your life ordinary and dull, like mine?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s good that you’ve come. You don’t look dull and ordinary – you look like someone who would rather be out fighting,” she said.

“I do?” he said, startled.

“I can tell,” she said. “It’s your intense eyes. Underneath you must be full of undiscovered passions. Maybe this weekend will bring them out. I do hope so.”

Illya blinked and hoped Napoleon couldn’t hear her. In vain. That gentleman suddenly held a handkerchief to his mouth and started coughing. Illya pretended to reach for something in his pocket and elbowed him sharply in the ribs. “I’m so sorry,” he said insincerely, “Are you all right?”

Napoleon wiped streaming eyes and nodded speechlessly.

“Look, it’s the Leader,” said the girl, nudging Illya, who sat back and watched as a man in a funereal black suit entered to welcome the audience to the first plenary session.

He launched into his oration like a fundamentalist preacher, all fire and tempest. “You’re in a terrible job – not what you wanted to do,” he bellowed. “Your talents are ignored, your boss despises you; your girlfriend or boyfriend is cheating on you; …” His voice dropped, “Many of you recognise the scenario, I can see.” Heads in the audience had dropped as he spoke. He continued nevertheless. “You’re putting on weight; you’re drinking too much; nothing is going like it should…”

Five hundred faces were raised to the platform in complete silence. The speaker’s voice softened. “But there’s a way. There’s a better job, better support, better partnership – a reason to be confident, proud…”

It was reassuring; shoulders relaxed. “Join us! I want you to get up out of your seat and tell us your troubles. G-R-I-V-E! You can rely on us to support you, guard and inspire you. Join the enthusiastic march to victory!”

Individuals – exhibitionists, in Illya’s opinion – rose and talked openly about their problems, ended tearfully and sat down to applause and supportive comments from the Leader. Illya had never been to a Christian fundamentalist meeting, but Napoleon could have enlightened him as to the origins of the style.

At the end of the session, Illya’s companion turned to him with glowing eyes, “Isn’t it wonderful!” she exclaimed. “Aren’t you glad you came?”

“Very,” he said, a little dampingly. “Excuse me, I have to leave you – my friend is trying to attract my attention.” Napoleon had given up on the pretty doll beside him and thought Illya needed rescuing.

“Will I see you at dinner? We can talk about it then,” she urged.

“Maybe.”

<><> 

The Thrush/Grive conference centre was very isolated, halfway up a mountain above Montreux, with a view across Lake Geneva to the mountains on the French side and accessible only by the mountain rack railway. Illya was looking out at it. “So, to achieve its aims, Thrush cuts potential recruits off from normal life and interactions,” he said.

They were changing for dinner and discussing what they had heard. “The classic brainwashing technique,” Illya continued. “Contain people, force them back on themselves, and encourage them to focus on their difficulties – not their successes.”

“And offer the salvation of a perverted doctrine,” said Napoleon. “Some of them are already showing the usual signs of distress and need.”

“It doesn’t work with everyone,” Illya said thoughtfully. “That girl said she’d been to several conferences here. But she doesn’t seem to have been recruited."

“That girl’s probably just looking for a husband. You’d better be careful – you and your intense eyes…”

Illya threw a pillow at him and snapped, “All we need to do is sow the seeds of doubt and then get away and report.” Then he smiled. “I stole a list of delegates, by the way.”

<><><> 

She was waiting by the door as they entered the dining room. “Oh, now we can sit together,” she said. Illya managed a wan smile.

One of the conference leaders allocated to their table welcomed them. “Don’t you just feel glad to be part of such a supportive community – that takes all your cares off of you?” he said, to murmurs of agreement.

Aware of Illya’s silence, his earnest mentor turned to him. “Don’t you think so?”

“Not really,” he said. “Everyone is being encouraged to lose hope that they can solve life’s problems alone…But we alone are the masters – and mistresses – of our fate. What is offered here is a false promise – of slavery to a false ideal.”

The girl was dismayed and turned to the conference leader, who said, “Our poor brother needs help with his paranoia. Let us instead reflect on the ideals he so sadly wishes to deny.”

“But he’s right,” said someone else. “It’s disabling to just dwell on problems rather than achievements.”

Angry dissenting voices were raised; the argument began to spread to other tables. With attention off themselves, first Illya and then Napoleon slipped away before the security guards could be called.

<><><> 

“I didn’t intend to annoy them and miss dinner,” Illya grumbled as they waited for the little train at the nearby station. Napoleon was looking at the timetable.

“The train isn’t due for half an hour – we’ll get something later.” He looked up as a rumble of thunder announced the arrival of a summer storm. They wouldn’t be able to dodge it – there was very little cover. A flash of lightning and simultaneous thunder crashed over them. By the time the train arrived, they were both soaked.

“I’m afraid your suit will never be the same,” said Illya, smoothing Napoleon’s expensive lapels, which had wrinkled in the downpour. “Waverly _will_ be pleased.”

“I’ll blame you for accusing them of brainwashing like that and forcing us to leave early.”

<><><><> 

**Author's Note:**

> Grive - French for Thrush


End file.
